CHAPTER 14
A murderer is judged by the kill; a hunter, by the restraint to forgo it.
—ELEANOR CLARKE, DANGEROUS-GAME HUNTER
Confusion roots me to the floor in the doorway.
If Irene wanted a meeting, why didn’t she reply to Dickie’s text?
And if this isn’t about a meeting, if she brought me here to kill me, why go to all the trouble?
There must be easier ways than involving the Coppers, risking a surveillance trail, and forcing me here against my will.
The Purple Copper nudges me into the room, then closes the door behind me. I glance back, and the door is gone, hidden behind the mounted head of a taxidermied elk. Its antlers resemble a crown of knives, with nine points on the left and eleven on the right.
I inch forward, but even with the click of my heels, Irene remains still in her armchair.
All her focus is fixed on an outdated bolt-action rifle—more museum piece than weapon—disassembled on the table in front of her.
She runs an oiled cloth along the silver-inlaid barrel, carefully wiping away the residue of burned powder.
She looks ready to hunt in a heavy, forest-green woolen jacket with leather buttons and embroidery spilling down the lapels, featuring oak leaves and pheasants.
There’s a spatter of dark blood on one of the sleeves.
Five other Blues lounge in armchairs by the fire, the same women Irene was with in the dining hall.
Their conversation fades to whispers as I pass.
Judging by their clothes, they’re hunters like Irene.
A few of them enjoy cigars and blended whiskey in crystal glasses, but there’s no mistaking their readiness for a fight.
I edge closer to Irene, still trailed by my three Pinkies. Overhead, security camera lights blink in the ceiling shadows. When I reach the table, Irene finally sets the oiled rag down and rises from the armchair.
Up close, I realize she’s even taller than I thought.
Her intelligent blue eyes sweep over me in a way that feels surgical, from the hem of my gown to the arch of my neck and the set of my jaw.
I get the distinct impression she’s comparing herself to me, and when a slow, confident smile spreads across her face, I know she’s decided she’s won.
In the Speakeasy, where etiquette rules are absent, I’m unsure how to greet her. But a memory surfaces, my fencing instructor’s advice before we traveled to the Rainbow District for the Junior World Fencing Championship: Greet every Blue the same. Smile and curtsy, no matter what.
So, I do it.
Irene’s expression hardens instantly. “Wipe that look off your face, Miss Waldsten. Smiles aren’t for pleasantries. They’re for triumphs.”
I drop the smile, hating my fencing instructor.
Irene turns away, and as she reassembles the rifle, I notice her engagement ring from Edmund, set with a sapphire so large I’m surprised she can lift her hand. “Is it true,” she says, “that you were invited to Mr. Prew’s private salon on the Regal Express?”
The question catches me off guard. Edmund?
I thought Irene dragged me here because of Bliss.
The ban has knocked her entire future off track.
Rapture, worth fifty billion and operating a large-scale Bliss manufacturing network across the Civilized World, is the backbone of the Hussey family’s wealth and power.
Thanks to Dad, that empire ground to a halt overnight.
As the sole heiress of Rapture, Irene has spent the last two days watching her future gutted like one of her kills.
Is she really going to take this lying down?
“Yes,” I reply cautiously.
“And how was Mr. Prew’s physical state?”
I recall Edmund’s sweaty face, the scratches on his skin smeared with blood, his torn vest, and his damp hair sticking wildly to his forehead. I tell Irene as much, but the words don’t sit right in my mouth. Something doesn’t add up.
Jack and Dickie told me that Edmund was with Irene before he discovered Charlotte and me in his salon. That’s not true, though. I can see it in the way Irene snaps the rifle parts together with angry clicks.
“Did Mr. Prew mention which salon he was in previously?” she asks.
“No. Mr. Carroway and Mr. Langley told me he was with you.”
Irene’s mind works for a moment before the coldness in her eyes begins to ease.
“I have an offer for you, Miss Waldsten.” She pauses to replace the rifle magazine, punching it firmly into place with her palm.
Then she slides the bolt back and forth to check the action.
“I wish for you to befriend Mr. Prew and remain in his company. During that time, you’ll provide me with a list of everyone he meets with, except Mr. Carroway and Mr. Langley.
Most importantly, you’ll uncover the identities of the women he’s meeting with. ”
Women? I suddenly realize the lipstick smudge I saw on Edmund’s cheek on the train wasn’t Irene’s.
Is he cheating on her? Beneath the anger tightening her face, I notice traces of humiliation, even a flicker of hurt.
It makes me wonder whether, despite the Tattletale article claiming that Irene and Edmund despise each other, there’s still something between them, at least on her end.
“You want to make a formal agreement?” I ask.
“No.” Irene crouches and strokes the springer spaniel beneath the table. “You’ll take me at my word.”
There can only be one reason for that. She doesn’t want our agreement on record. A high-citizen asking a low-citizen to expose a cheating fiancé—Irene can’t risk that getting out.
“What are your terms?”
The five Blues rise from their chairs in quiet, synchronized motion. As they pull up behind Irene, my Pinkies close around me, forming a defensive line.
“You have until December to uncover the women’s identities,” Irene says. “After that, you’ll drop out of Grandmaster and return to the Green District.”
“And if I don’t find out who the women are?”
“Then the deal is void.”
I pause to make Irene think I’m considering her offer.
I find her fixation on the women odd. People say there’s hardly a Blue marriage without infidelity, mainly because most are arranged.
The promise of unfaithfulness is practically built into the proposal itself.
Irene had to know what she was getting into when she agreed to marry Edmund.
“Why do you want their names?” I ask.
“I wish to know who has dishonored me.”
I nod slowly as I begin to understand. If Irene learns these women’s names, the dishonor will be enough to challenge each of them to a death duel. She’s asking me to serve the women up on a silver platter so she can kill them.
Irene’s friends close in until they’re shoulder to shoulder with her. Their saber hilts glint from their scabbards, daring me to refuse.
My options are clear, opening like roads before me.
If I refuse, I’m dead. If I agree, I might as well be.
All the roads lead to the same place: a cage wrapped in the illusion of safety, waiting for me to lock myself inside.
Harrison faced the same choice. So did hundreds of other low-citizens before me.
Harrison was right when he said that this shit sells itself.
We bend to the Blues to survive, even if it means breaking ourselves.
I see that now, and I accept it.
But that Blue will never be Irene.
“No,” I say.
“You would dare defy a high-citizen?” Irene draws closer, her shadow swallowing me whole. “You might think you have protection, Miss Waldsten, but there’s no one left to offer it.”
The words settle in my mind like a cold, heavy weight. One of the women standing behind Irene smiles, as if she knows something I don’t.
My hand closes around Winston Glass’s gift, still fixed to my chest. The device failed to protect me from the Coppers before, so I know there’s no point hoping it’ll save me now.
Coming here was a coin flip with no winning side.
But I can’t crawl into Irene’s pocket to buy time.
If I do, she’ll own me like one of her trophies.
Sooner or later, she’ll push for more, maybe even demand that I publicly denounce Dad or the Bliss ban, and I’ll have no power to refuse.
I’ll be her hostage, her low-citizen lapdog.
And when Dad finds out, he’ll never forgive me.
“Not the high-citizens,” I say. “Just you.”
The words barely leave my mouth when Irene’s friends lunge.
The Pinkies spring into action, sleek pistols snapping from their wrists.
The robots form a wall in front of me, a last line of defense.
The Blues move with blurring speed, locking onto the Pinkies before they can fire a single shot.
Sparks fly as mechanical limbs are ripped from joints and hurled across the room.
The robots’ graphene alloy torsos crumple under the assault.
Smoke hisses from the wreckage, and the air is choked with the stench of scorched circuits.
Irene leaps over the wreckage, closing the gap between us.
With a brutal, fluid motion, she brings the stock of her rifle to her shoulder and slides back the bolt, chambering a round.
Then she locks onto me, her cheek pressed against the stock as she sights down the barrel.
A slow exhale escapes her lips, and she disengages the safety.
Then, without a hint of hesitation, she squeezes the rifle trigger.
Time slows. I expect my life to flash before my eyes, but instead I recall a single memory of a garden, a rose, and a thorn.
I was five. My tiny fingers reached for the flower, then jerked back when a thorn pricked me.
The shock of green blood welling from the wound made me cry.
Dad knelt beside me, trying to calm me, but no words could cut through my tears.
So he took the stem, pressed his thumb to the thorn, and pricked himself, too.